


blackmarket reformation

by boundinshallows (museme87)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Chance Meetings, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hook-Up, Hotel Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Married Couple, Rimming, Time Skips, globetrotting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/boundinshallows
Summary: When he started in the business, Alfie knew that he'd leave it in a body bag. When another exit presents itself, however, Alfie decides to take it. The only problem: telling his husband.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	blackmarket reformation

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> The two of them are highly successful hit men -- but one (or both) are starting to think they want to retire.
> 
> \------
> 
> If this feels a little Inception-y, my apologies. I definitely meant it tongue-in-cheek in ficlet II, but also most of my knowledge about assassination/crime/espionage come from a shameful amount of Inception fic. Also, this is *not* my Inception AU fic for Tommy/Alfie. That's a separate beast entirely.

**I. Present**

Alfie stirs the Blanquette de Veau, careful that it doesn’t boil or the whole thing will be shot to hell. And that just won’t fucking do, will it? He can’t have that, not tonight. Anything else? Yeah, maybe he could deal with it, but not dinner. Dinner has to be as close to perfect as he can manage.

Because the thing is, there’s a lot riding on this evening. On putting Tommy in the right mood. And Alfie figures a homecooked meal, some top-shelf whisky, maybe a blowjob should the situation present itself, right, all of _that_ …well, it doesn’t guarantee anything, but it’s a fine start in Alfie’s humble opinion.

Which is why—the exact fucking reason, ain’t it—that he’s treating this ragout like it’s a bomb about to go off. It’s a good thing, then, that he has experience with this exact sort of thing—bombs, not ragout; at least, he’s dismantled more bombs than he’s made ragout, but this is hardly his first. Ragout, that is.

Spooning out a bit and tasting it, Alfie deems it heated through, hot but not enough to burn the mouth. He turns off the cooker and reaches for the plate of noodles he’d prepared earlier to serve as a bedding for the Blanquette de Veau. As he’s layering the ragout on top of the pasta, Alfie hears the door open. He checks the clock—nearly seven—and curses. Tommy’s home a bit early.

Alfie does what he can to make the dish look vaguely presentable on the sideboard. His original plan—before Tommy’d gone and fucked it up by being on time for once in his bleeding life—had been to set everything up on the table. As it is, Alfie just makes quick work of pouring the drinks, the tumbler of whisky for Tommy and a bit of Bordeaux for himself. He manages to recap the whisky just as Tommy wanders into the kitchen.

“What’s the occasion?” Tommy asks, brow knitting. “I didn’t… _fuck_ , did I forget our anniversary again?”

“Next month, mate,” Alfie says.

Tommy looks visibly relieved, but only for a moment. Alfie can see the second the panic sets in. He hadn’t been sure it would because sometimes Tommy does what he least expects, don’t he? But well, he _is_ —panicking. Alfie’s about to tell him to settle the hell down, but Tommy manages to say something before he can even open his mouth.

“What the fuck is this, Alfie?”

Alfie raises his hands in a placating gesture. “We just need to talk.”

“Are you fucking leaving me?” Tommy asks, more indignant than upset.

“Am I fuckin’…? Christ, just go sit down, yeah?”

*****

**II. Manchester, United Kingdom - 6 Years 3 Months Ago**

Alfie kicks the door shut with his heel and maneuvers his mark—Robbie Fletcher, 26, personal assistant to one Mr. Rupert White—against the wall of the flat. Robbie goes easily, his hands grasping and tugging at Alfie’s shirt in a way that’s a bit off-putting. Not that it matters much, does it? As far as Alfie’s concerned, Mr. Fletcher can fumble his way through the entire evening and he—James Harris, 31, personal driver to one Mr. Rupert White—will still let him think he’s a great fuck. Or, right, well, as close as Alfie can manage to it. He’s a far better marksman than con artist. 

“Fuck, you’re fit,” Robbie pants.

His hands slipping down Robbie’s back to his arse, Alfie lifts and holds Robbie to him tightly. The younger man winds his long legs around Alfie’s waist, drawing their hips together. For a moment, Alfie _wants_ , his half-hard cock twitching in response to Robbie’s own. For a moment, he wonders how big of a cock-up it would be if he drugs Robbie after they get off and not before. What the younger man lacks in technique he makes up for with those astonishing blue eyes, doesn’t he? Alfie wouldn’t mind getting lost in them for a bit.

But, no, that won’t fucking do at all, will it? He has an objective here. Better to get on with it.

He carries Robbie over to the sofa and eases him down. Alfie finishes off the buttons of his own shirt while Robbie pulls his jumper over his head.

And there it is again, innit, that _want_. Robbie looks _good_ for a bloke who spends all day sitting at a desk and delegating tasks to underlings to ensure White’s business runs smoothly. To get this body—all long, lean muscles—he must spend all his non-working, waking hours at the gym.

Alfie can’t quite help himself; he reaches out to run his hands along Robbie’s abs. Robbie hums, arching into his touch and tilting his hips suggestively. It’s done with far more finesse than Robbie’s managed thus far, as if something has clicked inside him. Settling between Robbie’s parted thighs—and really he _should_ have thought through staging this con on the sofa—Alfie leans down and captures his lips.

Robbie kisses back like he’s not been touched for an age, his mouth moving with both confidence and hunger. To Robbie’s credit, Alfie finds himself slipping easily into real desire when he’s meant to be focused on the task at hand: getting a series of passcodes he’s confident Robbie has access to. It’s just a bit hard to think, right, what with the way Robbie has their cocks lined up together, pressure tantalizing.

“James,” Robbie sighs, looking up at him through thick lashes.

Alfie startles, wondering who the fuck James is. His muscles tense up and then ease a moment later when he remembers that _he’s_ James. This mark is doing his fucking head in worse than he could’ve predicted. And that means he needs to get out of here before he does something really fucking stupid.

“Slick and rubber, love?”

“Yeah, just…” Robbie frowns. “The bedroom.”

They quickly negotiate space so that Robbie can get up to retrieve the necessities. Before he does though, Robbie takes his hand to press slow kisses into rough skin. Alfie finds his hand opening under Robbie’s touch and allows Robbie to take one of his fingers into his mouth. He draws it in deep, his tongue strong and moving like a dream. Alfie breathes in a sharp, unsteady breath, eyes fluttering. It’s a damn shame he’s going to have to burn this bridge.

“Take that off if you want to get anywhere near my arse.”

Alfie watches his eyes flicker to the ring he’s wearing on the middle finger of his dominant hand. And yeah, alright, that probably would be a bit uncomfortable. Alfie nods in agreement before Robbie pulls away and walks down the corridor, presumably towards the bedroom.

With a swift tug, Alfie pulls off the ring and goes to slip it into his trouser pocket. However, he’s a bit preoccupied with the memory of Robbie’s mouth and misses the pocket entirely, the ring dropping and rolling under the sofa.

“Shit.”

Alfie falls to his knees and pats around on the carpets, hoping it’s not gone too far under the furniture. It wouldn’t do to leave it behind. Less out of sentimental value, though Alfie does quite like it, and more so because it’s something that can be traced to him if the job goes tits up.

Reaching for his mobile, he turns on the torch to flash a bit of light under the sofa. He spots the ring, but not a second before he spots the _gun_. And he’s been fucking had, hasn’t he? Alfie doesn’t know how or when, but those aren’t important just now. What’s important is that someone’s found him out.

He quickly grabs the gun from where it’s been taped and rounds to aim it down the corridor where he can hear Robbie’s oncoming steps. Robbie takes one look at the gun trained on him and ducks into the kitchen, taking cover. Judging by the sound, Robbie has another gun hidden away with the pots and pans.

“Who fuckin’ hired you, mate?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Robbie shouts. “How much is the price on my head?”

Alfie blinks and tries to think slowly, _carefully_ , because he doesn’t know who in the bloody hell this bloke is, right, but he has the sneaking suspicion that there’s been some misunderstanding. Of course, it’s not like that makes a bit of difference in their line of work, does it? A man’s been shot over less.

“Don’t know, do I? I’m not here for you.”

“A means to a fucking end,” Robbie says.

He hears a little groan of realization in Robbie’s tone, as if he’s also just realized that they were using each other to get to someone else. Not _someone_ ; Rupert White. Robbie had planted himself in the firm just as Alfie had. He must be damn good at his job if Alfie hadn’t picked up on his cover.

“Robbie.”

“James.”

Alfie smiles. “Love, why don’t you tell me who’s paying you to off White, and I’ll do the same.”

“And why would I do that, eh?”

“Ah right, well, the thing is, I have a plan that could make us very rich indeed.”

*****

**III. Chicago, United States - 5 Years 11 Months Ago**

“What, exactly, does one say to a man he’s shared a mark with the next time they run into one another, hmm?”

As he takes his seat at the bar, Alfie sees Tommy turn his head towards him, his brow pulled in confusion and then lifting with surprise. Alfie can’t blame him; the odds are remarkably fucking slim that they’d run into each other ever again. In fact, Alfie much preferred it that way, didn’t he, especially after the little stunt he pulled in Manchester. Looking into Tommy’s eyes just now though, the reason for that preference is momentarily escaping him.

“That depends. If he’s a double-crossing sack of shit, I’d imagine it’d be in his best interest to _fuck off_.”

“You’re angry.”

“You fucked me out of a lot of money, Alfie.”

“Ah, but I think you’re forgetting that I also happened to _get_ you more money before all that, didn’t I? That _was_ something I did,” Alfie says, emphasizing each word with short jabs of his finger. “Before I fucked you over. It was.”

Tommy opens his mouth, probably to tell Alfie to shove it, when the bartender comes over. Alfie orders himself a soda and another of whatever Tommy’s having for Tommy. Though he has a bit of a reputation for wild ideas, Alfie is well fucking aware that he’s not about to smooth things over with a drink. But in no way can it _hurt_.

“Why are you still here?”

Alfie gestures around them. “Snowstorm. Delayed flight. I didn’t think I needed to explain it to someone as perceptive as yourself.”

“ _Here_ ,” Tommy repeats. “There are plenty other seats, ones far away from me. Go find one.”

“That’s hardly how one ought to treat an old friend now, is it?”

Grabbing a fistful of shirt, Tommy draws Alfie close, his eyes hard. “You’re lucky we’re in an airport right now, eh. You _fuck_ with me, you get a bullet between the eyes.”

Alfie huffs a laugh and smirks. Alright, well then. If that’s how Tommy wants to play this, it certainly can be fucking arranged, can’t it? Standing, Alfie gives Tommy a hard slap on the back, one that knocks the gin over the rim of Tommy’s glass and down his fingers.

“I’ll see you around then.”

*

When Alfie had said that he’d be seeing Tommy around, he didn’t mean _this_ —four hours later and in his hotel bar. Caught off guard like this—dressed down and picking up his supper from the bartender—he doesn’t feel as threatening as he’d like to appear to Tommy after their little exchange this afternoon. And when their eyes meet, it appears that Tommy’s equally put off by another run in, especially one that interrupts what looks to be an impressive episode of binge drinking.

“Are you stalking me now?”

Alfie scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, mate.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of his drink. Being the bigger man in the situation, Alfie takes it upon himself to turn his back to Tommy so as to not disturb his majesty. Then it’s _Tommy_ who scoffs and mutters something under his breath that Alfie can’t quite make out, but it sounded like something vaguely offensive.

“What’s that now?”

“I said you weren’t complaining when we were on the White job. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. It’s a fuckin’ shame, innit, that we were interrupted? If I’d finished with you, you wouldn’t be acting the right little ice queen just now. That’s for fuckin’ certain.”

“Yeah, a real shame.” Tommy hums, inspecting his drink before flicking his gaze up to Alfie. “Because if we’d finished, you’d know I can afford to act like this and still men keep begging.”

Tommy's expression is all cocksure and bitchy. It runs straight to Alfie’s groin, making his cock jump and bollocks ache. Once his heart recovers from its sudden missed beat, Alfie begins to daydream about what it would look like, fucking that stupid look off his fucking face.

His ears _whoosh_ with blood, which explains why he doesn’t hear himself say as much, but he must say it aloud because Tommy is standing and knocking back his drink, promising:

“You can fucking try.”

*

“—oh fuck,” Tommy groans, grinding himself on Alfie’s cock. “Fuck, this is—”

Alfie thrusts into him hard, trying to give Tommy what he wants while still bringing it to the verge of too much. When they’d started, Alfie’d thought that he would make Tommy come apart that way: as a shivering, shuddering mess in his arms. As it turns out, Tommy relished taking Alfie’s just-too-much, meeting him every time with a string of curses and quivering thighs. It has Alfie feeling like he’s drowning.

“There you are,” Alfie says softly, running his hand down Tommy’s thigh.

“Wanted to finish the first time,” Tommy pants into his ear, twisting his hips in a way that makes Alfie sees stars. “You were a fucking mark, eh. But still. Fucking fit, Alfie.”

“Look at you.”

Alfie wants to tell Tommy that he’d wanted to finish that first time too. Even though he was a mark. Even though it would be breaking the rules. (Hitmen didn’t have official rules, mind, but some things were just common fucking sense, weren’t they? And letting your guard down enough to fuck someone, well, that wasn’t on). But he can’t quite articulate that just now because he feels his balls tighten up, and he’s losing it, moaning loudly in Tommy’s ear.

*****

**IV. Satkhira, Bangladesh - 5 Years 4 Months Ago**

“Is this something we’re doing now, Alfie?” Tommy asks, by way of greeting.

Alfie can’t help but bite back his grin, even if Tommy can’t see him over the phone. There’s something a bit playful in Tommy’s tone, like he’s more amused than put out. Alfie wonders if maybe he ought to read into that. But that’s a fucking fool’s errand, innit, especially given what he’s about to tell Tommy.

“Sweetheart, I have some very, very, very bad news for you.”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I sold you out, love,” Alfie says, even managing to sound a bit guilty about it. “Maragos, right, he was offering a prince’s ransom for your whereabouts. It was truly too good to pass up.”

There’s silence for one heavy moment before Alfie hears the sharp intake of Tommy’s breath.

“You _fucking_ what? He wants to kill me for that business in Antalya.”

Alfie sighs. The hit on Corendon’s CFO in Antalya had been a bad job from the start. He’d told Tommy as much—that if he took it, he’d fuck over the wrong kind of people—but Tommy never fucking listens to him when it might actually matter.

“I know all that, don’t I? On account of my _selling you out_.”

“I can’t believe I ate your fucking arse,” Tommy mutters, more to himself than Alfie. “It wasn’t fucking worth it.”

Alfie frowns. “No need to say hurtful things like that, especially when they’re not true.”

He hears Tommy moving, the sound of a zipper unzipping and shit thrown quickly into a bag. If he’s honest with himself, Alfie’s surprised Tommy hasn’t hung up on him just yet. And that’s a good thing, innit, on account of Alfie not being finished with him.

“How long do I have?”

“He’s coming by way of Pretoria.”

The flurry movement on the other end stops suddenly, and Alfie can’t help but grin.

“I haven’t been in South Africa for five weeks now,” Tommy says slowly. 

“Yeahh well, my information is a little outdated, innit?”

It hadn’t been. Not by a fucking long shot.

“Alfie”

“Hmm?”

“Fuck you.”

Alfie laughs. “Alright, mate. Cheers.”

*****

**V. Rome, Italy - 4 Years 10 Months Ago**

“You came,” Alfie says, watching the water fall into the pool of the Trevi Fountain. “Didn’t think you would.”

Tommy takes a cigarette out of his coat and lights up. “Call me morbidly curious.”

“That’ll get you into some trouble, won’t it?”

“If you’ve asked me here to sell me out again or shoot me, tell me now, eh? I won’t bother to unpack.”

Turning towards him, Alfie puts his hand over his chest. “You wound me, Thomas. I told you this was strictly personal, to make up for all that nasty business with Maragos, yeah? Consider this little getaway as a gesture of good will. From me to you. Nothing but clear air between us.”

“I remember Lima.”

“Forget Lima, mate. Water under the soddin’ bridge. What you _need_ to remember, right—what is purely fucking _essential_ that you recall—is that time in Stavanger.”

Tommy scoffs. “You’ve been too fucking cocky since Stavanger.”

Yeah, well, maybe he has been, but he can’t be blamed for that, can he? Before all that bad blood in Lima, there’d been _something_ , a bit of a spark just there between them. The long weekend in Stavanger had been entirely accidental, a neutral location to exchange some forged documents. And that exchange, it’d only taken a few minutes under the streetlamp. They could have left it at that—Alfie’d expected nothing more—but when Tommy wrapped himself around him, well…Alfie wasn’t a fucking idiot, was he? He’d booked the best suite he could manage on such short notice and spent the next 72 hours fucking Tommy into the mattress.

But the thing is…Stavanger, yeah, it hadn't like all the times before. Not the way Tommy'd kissed him. Not the way he'd cradled Alfie’s face in his palms and Alfie’s hips between his thighs. And a bit of softness from Tommy had brought out much more softness in himself. For those few days, it'd felt like they’d been playing at other people, maybe people they might’ve been if they hadn’t been guns for hire. Tommy’d smiled—fucking _smiled_ —as they’d stirred in bed that last morning together, his blue eyes sleep-bleary, but bright. That’s when Alfie’d felt the pang of it, whatever it is that he’s been feeling for Tommy. He thinks there’s probably a word for it, but that’d be too fucking inconvenient to entertain, wouldn’t it?

Still.

“What happened. In Stavanger—”

“Alfie,” Tommy interrupts, exasperated but not unkind. “Fucking leave it?”

He looks over at Tommy, meeting those pleading eyes. “What if I don’t want to, hmm? Right, what if leaving it…what if leaving it is the last thing I want to do? Have you considered that, mate?”

“I shouldn’t have to explain to you why this is impossible,” Tommy says, grabbing his upper arm and looking at him hard. “But I _will_ , eh?”

Alfie exhales. He shuts his eyes and tells himself that this is the only way this could have gone. And it _is_. That’s the fucking truth of the thing, isn’t it?

“Alright.”

Tommy startles. “Alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Alfie sighs, pressing his palms to his tired eyes. “S’fine.”

When Alfie glances at him, he sees Tommy nodding a bit, almost to himself. But whatever it is, he seems to shake it off quickly enough. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, Tommy flicks the butt and crushes it under the toe of his shoe.

“Let’s get dinner?” Tommy suggests. “Since we’re here. I think I’m entitled to it as part of your apology.”

Alfie grins. “You eat like a fuckin’ bird. Cheapest date I’ll ever have.”

“Nah, not tonight. I’m feeling ravenous. Maybe I’ll order one of everything on the menu.”

“Cunty little lad, aren’t you?” Alfie says affectionately.

Grinning, Tommy shakes his head and turns to start walking. Before he can think better of it, Alfie reaches out to take Tommy by the wrist, stopping him.

“In another life?”

Tommy says nothing for a long moment and then nods. “Yeah, maybe in another life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part II will get posted when I can manage. It's a busy next couple months for me, but I will do what I can!


End file.
